The psalms appointed for morning prayer in The Book of Common Prayer today included Psalm 44, and I couldn't help but think of the girls kidnapped in Nigeria with these words on their lips:We have heard with our ears, O God, our ancestors have told us,what deeds you performed in their days, in the days of old: you with your own hand drove out the nations, but them you planted;you afflicted the peoples, but them you set free; for not by their own sword did they win the land, nor did their own arm give them victory;but your right hand, and your arm, and the light of your countenance, for you delighted in them.

You are my King and my God; you command victories for Jacob. Through you we push down our foes; through your name we tread down our assailants. For not in my bow do I trust, nor can my sword save me. But you have saved us from our foes, and have put to confusion those who hate us. In God we have boasted continually, and we will give thanks to your name for ever. Yet you have rejected us and abased us, and have not gone out with our armies. You made us turn back from the foe, and our enemies have taken spoil for themselves. You have made us like sheep for slaughter, and have scattered us among the nations. You have sold your people for a trifle, demanding no high price for them. You have made us the taunt of our neighbors, the derision and scorn of those around us. You have made us a byword among the nations, a laughing-stock among the peoples. All day long my disgrace is before me, and shame has covered my face at the words of the taunters and revilers, at the sight of the enemy and the avenger. All this has come upon us, yet we have not forgotten you, or been false to your covenant. Our heart has not turned back, nor have our steps departed from your way, yet you have broken us in the haunt of jackals, and covered us with deep darkness. If we had forgotten the name of our God, or spread out our hands to a strange god, would not God discover this? For he knows the secrets of the heart. Because of you we are being killed all day long, and accounted as sheep for the slaughter. And as the final words of this psalm come around, I can't help but think that the hands and feet and deeds they seek from God are the ones given by God to me--and you.Rouse yourself! Why do you sleep, O Lord? Awake, do not cast us off for ever! Why do you hide your face? Why do you forget our affliction and oppression? For we sink down to the dust; our bodies cling to the ground. Rise up, come to our help. Redeem us for the sake of your steadfast love. How will I use my God-given hands and feet--how will I use my freedom to act--for the liberation of those who are, at this very moment, horrifically oppressed?Here's a statement about the Nigerian girls from Presiding Bishop Katharine Jefferts Schori given on behalf of the Episcopal Church, and here's a link to the call for submissions for the anthology that will be published in honor of the girls (whose proceeds will go to notforsalecampaign.org)

Many weeks ago I was invited by the vicar of St. Augustine's Church to give a homily at both Sunday liturgies for the third Sunday of Lent. Yesterday was the third Sunday of Lent, and these are the words that I shared with my fellow parishioners.Lent III Lessons: Genesis 44:1-17, Psalm 95, Romans 8:1-10, John 5:25-29 "From the wilderness the whole congregation of the Israelites journeyed by stages, as God commanded. And they camped, but there was no water for the people to drink." This is what we hear from the book of Exodus. God's people had been journeying for a long time. They were hopeful and excited about their newfound freedom from slavery in Egypt. But in the midst of their journey, tired and weary from walking, they found themselves in a place that had no water to quench their thirst. When they got upset about it, Moses got upset at them for being upset. And then God finally relented and gave the people a spring of water. The scripture writer notes throughout the story that God's people persisted in doubt.

There's something strange about this. Why would God bring God's beloved people out of slavery and then leave them out to dry, literally? They're in the wilderness, a place unknown to them, and they're thirsting. Thirst is no insignificant thing. Thirst, if left unquenched long enough, could lead to death. Thirst is such a fearful experience that there are psalms dedicated to it: in Psalm 42 we pray, "As the deer that pants for streams of water, so my soul pants for God," and in Psalm 63 we pray "My soul is thirsting for you, O God, like a dry, weary land without water."

For the people of Israel, a dry land was an unfruitful land. A dry people was a dying people.

And here we are, on the third Sunday of Lent, not quite halfway through our journey in the Lenten wilderness, and we find ourselves parched. My guess is that you, like I, have given up something for Lent (in my case, being the overachiever that I am, I gave up four things). If you're like me, your Lenten fasting leaves you yearning, sometimes bitterly, sometimes desperately, for the familiar comforts you gave up on Ash Wednesday.

This Sunday's lessons are all about water and thirst, and they may be the most important ones we hear during Lent. We think of Lent as a time to honor Jesus' ultimate sacrifice on the cross by making sacrifices of our own, and Lent is that, but Lent also has something far more difficult to teach us.

The harder lesson of Lent is difficult to perceive when our fasting is overshadowed by our certainty that relief is coming. Unlike our voluntary Lenten fasting, for the Israelites wandering in the wilderness, there was no timeline or guarantee of reaching an oasis. Their journey out of slavery in Egypt meant leaving behind all their known sources of refreshment, period. It meant taking the extraordinary risk that they might involuntarily and without warning have to abstain from water--an abstinence that, if prolonged, even for a few days, would have the power to claim their lives.

By leaving Egypt, they weren't just taking their lives out of the hands of Pharaoh; by seeking freedom, they were submitting their lives to the mercy of their God, their sole protector from the dangers of the wilderness. As they found themselves stopping to camp in a place with no water, they were terrified. They were so sick with parched mouths and deep thirst that they were no longer sure that the God in whom they had put all their trust would be willing or able to save them from death. They had already journeyed too far from Egypt to go back. Their lives hung by a thread, and they could no longer save themselves. Only God could. And that scared them.

Centuries later, when Jesus offered living water to the Samaritan woman, he was offering her God's new covenant: the promise that as long as she sought this new living water, rather than seeking water from the source she had always turned to, she would never have to fear dying from thirst the way the Israelites had feared dying from thirst in the wilderness.

The lesson from John's gospel isn't merely a story about the Samaritan woman. It's a story about us. We have been offered this same living water by God in our baptism, and yet what do we do? We build up storehouses of comfort around ourselves in order to make sure that we never have to rely on anyone but ourselves. Our lives get so cluttered by the comforts we take for granted that when we tear away some of those comforts during Lent, we feel a deep, uncomfortable emptiness. We taste a morsel of the same bitter fear that haunted God's people in the wilderness, and we can't wait to get back to the way things were. In the end, we would rather drink from the well that we've always known than trust in some guy who doesn't even know to bring his own bucket. We might give up what we cling to for a few weeks, but who among us is willing to let our comforts go indefinitely? If I let my sources of comfort die, I risk dying, too.

I'd like to suggest that we ask ourselves what we left behind in order to enter this Lenten wilderness, and whether we're willing to leave behind all the rest. Do we dare to empty ourselves of everything we cling to until all we have left is our aching thirst for God and the trust that God won't let us die? Perhaps, as we enter the second half of Lent, we can risk losing it all--every thing we think we need to be happy, all our enslaving attachments, every shackle of our obsessions--and move forward to the unknown, unguaranteed future. And maybe then, as we go forward bearing nothing but our thirst and radical trust in the face of terrifying dryness, God will lift up for us a spring of living water, and we'll be able to rise from our knees to unfettered, quenching, resurrected freedom.

Although I am weary from my Lenten penances, my senses are sharper. When my daughter touches my arm in the early morning so she can crawl under the covers next to me, I notice and make way, helping her settle into the crook of my arm. When my hubby rolls closer to me in the stirrings before the morning alarm, I move my chilly feet closer to his feet, and he offers wordless warmth. When my 9-month old sits up in her crib next to my bed and begins to play with quiet joy, I'm grateful that no one will need to shush anyone this morning, and I slide out of bed, pick her up, and hold her close as we walk out to begin the rest of the day.This Lenten emptiness has transformed into the spaciousness I crave so often. By letting go, I have embraced something unexpected: ample, uncluttered room in which to attend to the graces of my daily life. What further graces will I encounter this Lent from the effects of my Lenten penances?

After indulging in Shrove Tuesday pancakes and Mardis Gras beads, we enter the first day of Lent: Ash Wednesday. Millions will travel to churches today to be marked with the ash of last Palm Sunday's palm fronds, marking a stark entrance into the liturgical season of abstinence, repentance, and alms-giving.During this season of Lent, I would like to offer you my prayers. If you feel so moved, please leave a comment here asking for a particular kind of prayer. I will light a candle at the St. James Chapel of St. Augustine Church in honor of each prayer request I receive. I invite you, in return, to offer a prayer for someone else, lighting a candle of your own. Perhaps, by the Easter Vigil, our candle-lit prayers will have illumined the whole world.

Tomorrow is Shrove Tuesday/Fat Tuesday/Mardis Gras in the Christian tradition. Time to use up whatever remains in the larder, because pretty soon we'll be fasting....Well, actually, I don't have a larder. I don't even have lard.But I am Christian, and Lent starts on Wednesday, and I will be fasting.This will be my first Lent as a member of my Benedictine Canon community. My daily prayers in this community have brought me to a profound awareness of my sisters and brothers who suffer. There are countless people in the world at this very moment who are oppressed, in danger, starving, naked, or enslaved. I find myself asking what I can do to be in solidarity with all my sisters and brothers who suffer. I'm not in a position to save the world; nor am I in a position to save even one person. I'm no savior. But the one I acclaim as savior is someone whose behavior I can emulate. I can, in my twenty-first-century middle-class American context, step away from my everyday life and take on a journey that isn't surrounded by easy comfort. It seems silly to do this, mainly because it is my choice to do so. What does it mean to choose to make a sacrifice if I can always choose at any moment to turn back to the way things were? I'm always operating from the privilege of my ability to choose, and in that sense my sacrifice is folly. Nevertheless, I choose to let go of my normal life during Lent with the hope that I might be transformed for the sake of the common good--and transformation will not necessarily be my choice, my doing, my accomplishment.During this Lent, my penance will involve giving up three things: 1) sweets, 2) meat, and 3) my favorite go-to social network, Facebook. (When my darling husband reads this, he won't believe it. He knows me. These are three of my favorite things.)I don't know what I or anyone else will get out of my Lenten penance, but I suspect I will feel a great emptiness almost immediately--and in the difficult-to-me facing of that emptiness over the coming six weeks, my heart may break. If it does, what wisdom then will my heart be finally ready to receive?What good will I be empowered and inspired to do? What injustice will I realize I can no longer overlook, thanks to my recognition of my personal ability to make a tangible difference in reversing that injustice?This Lent, I will seek to empty myself of what is desirable but not important, so there might be enough spaciousness within me to bear something difficult and radically important: Bear one another's burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ. -Galatians 6:2

My dreams this week concern me.I've dreamed about killing someone I didn't know; I wasn't convicted in court for lack of evidence, even though I knew I was at fault. I've dreamed about others I did know dying of natural causes, leaving me to pick up the pieces. Last night I dreamed about an elderly friend of mine asking me to help pack up two houses: the one in which he used to live and the one in which he currently lived. He was preparing to move elsewhere, though I didn't know where. Everything I touched in his current house was laden with memory, whereas everything in the other house was strange, rich, and unlike him as far as I knew him.I'm no expert on Jung or Freud, but I do know that dreams can point dreamers to insights about themselves and their lives.What is with all the death, hiding, and transition? I woke in the middle of the night last night to get my baby daughter a bottle. When I returned, I flashed back to a conversation from my last Benedictine Canon chapter meeting. Br. Philip talked about preparing for his final profession as a Canon next month, in particular about the placing of the pall over his prostrated body. Like Br. Chad and Br. Rawleigh, Br. Philip will lay down his body at the service of God, the community, and the world. He'll be covered with a pall, the pale garment of baptism and death.I realized in the chill of the night that if I make my full profession as a Benedictine Canon, I will be committing myself to die.I crawled back into bed and closed my eyes, but words rose up, and I ended up texting myself with the words of a haiku so they wouldn't be swallowed by sleep.A funeral pallveils the diff'rence between oldand new. Ego die.My dreams point me to an unexpected revelation: my old self is dying. I am being put to the test. My identity as a religious person has long been plagued with fear, self-absorption, doubt, and horded treasures, all carefully saved so I would have something to cling to in case God ever failed me. Now, step by step, I am moving forward into the intensely uncomfortable unknown: a place of overflowing trust. Father, I put my life in your hands.I'm dying--and it's okay. I'm letting the precious treasure of my life go. And what a relief.Mother, I put my life in your hands.My life will be whatever it is meant to be. The particular outcome of my life is no longer my concern. Living from moment to moment at the service of God and God's magnificent, multi-faceted creation is enough. Being able to turn again and again from my selfish fears toward God, the holy Fire who burns within me, is enough.

I want to pause for a minute and think about the way my new title of "Sister" changes things for me.Now that I am "Sister" to those in my community, those who are "Brother" in that community are my brothers. They're confreres. They're bros. They're family. I even get to see them with relative frequency--once or twice or even thrice a week, sometimes.I'm holding my new chosen-sibling relationship with them in tension with my vows of stability, conversion, and obedience. I'm promising to be here for them. I'm promising to keep trying to be a better sister to them. And I'm promising to listen to them, even when I don't want to.I'm learning how to be a sister in a new way. I'm a sister to four childhood siblings, but growing up, stability, conversion, and obedience played very little role in my relationship with them. I was a loner, I did what I wanted, and I didn't listen when it didn't suit me.Will my identity as "Sister" in this community change my identity as sister in my childhood family? I don't know. But here's a change I am noticing since my vows last Sunday: when I pray for others now, I don't just pray for those I find easy to love. I lift up the names of those my heart has closed off. Every day, I punch the steely walls of my heart in order to pray for those whom I don't want to love, don't want to be there for, don't want to be better for the sake of, and don't want to listen to.My prayers may not change the ones I pray for, and they may not change my relationships with those people, but my prayers for those others are changing me. Despite my inclination to resist, the vows I uphold are tearing down my defenses, exposing my vulnerabilities, and rending my heart for love's sake.

In my almost thirty-two years as a Roman Catholic, I have never been prouder of any pope. Granted, I've only encountered three in my lifetime, but I am also a student of Christian history. You stand out among your predecessors.

You have rocked the entire world with your embodied proclamations of the good news. You kiss the wounds of the sick. You share tables with those who have neither tables of their own nor food to put on them. You warn your clergy again and again against the glamour of clericalism. Your love is abundant, like Christ's was and is, and I have seen it have a multiplying effect, even (perhaps especially) among non-Roman Catholics.

I am tremendously grateful to God for your faithful, living witness to the teachings of Jesus. Your heart is wide open, and I feel quite certain that if I happened to walk into your midst, you would smile and greet me with the warmth of an old friend, and I would greet you likewise.

I need to confess something to you. On February 16, 2014, God willing, I will leave my cloak of Roman Catholic identity behind in order to be received as a member of the Episcopal Church.

Despite having spent my entire life as a devoted (albeit flawed) Roman Catholic, I cannot remain Roman Catholic any longer. Because despite the gospel of Jesus you now proclaim miraculously through your very body, and despite the many ways in which I encounter Christ's presence through your holy example, I'm afraid there is at least one way in which you, like most if not all of your predecessors, have failed to hear the voice of God and heed it: in the calling of thousands upon thousands of women around the world to ordained ministry.

I was able to name my own God-given call to ordained ministry thirteen years ago. I was still a teenager then. I am close with several Roman Catholic women who share the same call. Yet you, like your papal predecessors, have dismissed even the possibility that women might be called to ordained ministry.

I don't understand this hardness of heart. Not from you.

What I do understand is how hard it can be to hear God's earnest whispers when so much of one's culture screams against it. My favorite psalm is Psalm 51, because it is a perpetual invitation to be changed, transformed, turned around:

I suspect this psalm is as dear to you as it is to me. Please, then, let God's whispers reach your ear through my meager words: God calls some women to serve as ordained ministers. That the Roman Catholic hierarchy refuses to acknowledge this (or even to discuss it) is gravely sinful. It is presumptuous to deny God's calling to those whom God has chosen.

Please, for God's sake, don't allow whatever is lacking in me cause you to be deaf to what God is speaking to you through me in this moment. If anyone with the authority to effect gospel change in the Roman Catholic Church can hear this prophetic word, I believe you can. Please, open your heart and listen for the sake of my daughters, who will grow up in the midst of your legacy even if they never set foot in a Roman Catholic church.

Please, listen. Listen because you know better than almost anyone that God speaks prophetically through those who are marginalized, women included.

Please, I beg you from the bottom of my heart, listen--allow yourself to be importuned by me, just like the judge was importuned by the widow, or like Jesus was importuned by the woman begging for scraps. You and I both know what happened in those latter two instances. If Jesus' mind could be changed, surely yours can.

I believe that the world-wide turning of hearts to God, if you listened in this one way and acted accordingly, would be a miracle of biblical proportion.

With blessings and love in the One who creates, redeems, and sanctifies all the world,

M. Kate AllenThis letter originally appeared at parentwin.com, where I am a regular contributor on topics of religion. The letter went viral among my Facebook friends and received more discussion and shares there than anything else I've every written, anywhere. A friend of mine encouraged me to mail it to Pope Francis. I did. If he responds, I will share his response here. (Unless he asks me not to.)

To those against whom I have sinned,There's no easy way for me to say this, so let me start with the most important part:I am sorry.I have done you wrong, and I am sorry.I have hurt you, and I am sorry.

For every time I had an advantage over you and used it to your disadvantage, I'm sorry.For every time I threw you into a crisis of self-doubt and self-hatred, I'm sorry.For every time I shouted at you, called you names, slandered you behind your back, excluded you, ridiculed you, and broke your heart, I'm sorry.For every time I chose my own interest at your expense and obfuscated the truth, I'm sorry.For every time I physically, mentally, verbally, and spiritually harmed you, I'm sorry.For every time I tried to come between you and the ones you loved, I'm sorry.For every time I chose the lazy way at your expense, I'm sorry.For every time my words or actions invited you to act or speak in ways you regret, I'm sorry.For every time I spoke or acted in any unkind, uncharitable, unloving way, I'm sorry.For these words that will probably never reach you, I'm sorry.For these words that you probably wouldn't believe anyway, I'm sorry.For every wrong that I have forgotten, I'm sorry.For everything I do in the future to convince you that I'm still as stony-hearted as ever, I'm sorry.I'm so sorry.All I have left to offer you is my open hands, waiting in emptiness to receive your undeserved forgiveness.With broken love,Kate

Did you know that this holiday was originally celebrated as National Women's Day, established by the Socialist Party of America in 1909? Did you know that 15,000 women marched in New York City the year before to demand the right to vote, shorter hours, and better pay? Did you know that Clara Zetkin, the leader of the Social Democratic Party (SDP) in Germany brought about the idea of an International Women's Day in 1910?

I didn't. I didn't even remember this morning that today was International Women's Day--not until I saw a post from a former student colleague of mine who's finishing her doctoral dissertation in systematic theology.

In 1909, there was no such thing as a female rabbi--in 2013, I'm the assistant for one.

Alas, in 2013, a Roman Catholic woman is still regarded Thomistically as only partly human--and this idea manifests itself, among other ways, in the persistent refusal of the upper echelons of the Roman Catholic hierarchy even to talk about the possibility of ordaining women to ministry.

This is the form of sexist oppression I personally face each day. And to think that I'm one of the fortunate ones! Indeed, I'm a citizen of one of the most privileged countries in the world. As a woman with pale skin, my privilege increases even more. I've got it good.

And yet--I don't. Women don't. Women with dark pigmentation don't. Women who have male genitals (i.e. trans-women) definitely don't. Even in this supposedly great nation, we are underpaid, undervalued, underemployed, under-respected. Under. Supine. It's sinful, and it's far worse in other parts of the world.

Clara Zetkin said that this day would be a day for women to name their demands. Here are mine, on behalf of my sister women, my daughters, and their daughters:

~I demand, first and foremost, that women be treated equally to men in religious contexts.

~I demand that women be treated equally to men in the workplace.

~I demand that the voices of women be heard first when societal policies that impact women are being discussed.

~I demand that all women, especially those most marginalized, be treated with honor and respect by all men and privileged women.

~I demand that all those who experience privilege on a daily basis, from white men in power to men of any color to women who are wealthy and educated, examine their daily actions for the ways in which they participate in and promote the systematic oppression of women, and that having recognized their wrongdoing, they change their ways and make amends.

I pray that I will be able to see the ways in which I have participated in this oppression so I may begin to remedy it. In the meantime, I speak out with the power of my voice, knowing that when I speak, people listen.

Finally, I thank all the women before me who spoke up so that my voice could be amplified. Sister women, you have done so, so well. Thank you.

Here I thought this morning's chatter would be about the latest episode of Downton Abbey. Instead the first thing that popped up on one of my social network feeds was a joke about being asked by the pope to be his replacement. All my East Coast friends and news sources were way ahead of me.

Someone reposted this announcement from Pope Benedict:

Dear Brothers,I have convoked you to this Consistory, not only for the three canonizations, but also to communicate to you a decision of great importance for the life of the Church. After having repeatedly examined my conscience before God, I have come to the certainty that my strengths, due to an advanced age, are no longer suited to an adequate exercise of the Petrine ministry. I am well aware that this ministry, due to its essential spiritual nature, must be carried out not only with words and deeds, but no less with prayer and suffering. However, in today’s world, subject to so many rapid changes and shaken by questions of deep relevance for the life of faith, in order to govern the bark of Saint Peter and proclaim the Gospel, both strength of mind and body are necessary, strength which in the last few months, has deteriorated in me to the extent that I have had to recognize my incapacity to adequately fulfill the ministry entrusted to me. For this reason, and well aware of the seriousness of this act, with full freedom I declare that I renounce the ministry of Bishop of Rome, Successor of Saint Peter, entrusted to me by the Cardinals on 19 April 2005, in such a way, that as from 28 February 2013, at 20:00 hours, the See of Rome, the See of Saint Peter, will be vacant and a Conclave to elect the new Supreme Pontiff will have to be convoked by those whose competence it is.

Dear Brothers, I thank you most sincerely for all the love and work with which you have supported me in my ministry and I ask pardon for all my defects. And now, let us entrust the Holy Church to the care of Our Supreme Pastor, Our Lord Jesus Christ, and implore his holy Mother Mary, so that she may assist the Cardinal Fathers with her maternal solicitude, in electing a new Supreme Pontiff. With regard to myself, I wish to also devotedly serve the Holy Church of God in the future through a life dedicated to prayer.

From the Vatican, 10 February 2013

BENEDICTUS PP XVI

I am surprised by this turn of events. The last pope to resign did so in the Middle Ages. I remember the end of Pope John-Paul's reign, in which he was obviously too sick to offer any leadership whatsoever, but apparently too proud (or something) to do the appropriate thing and resign.

When Benedict was elected pope, I shuddered. I expected awful things. And yes, his silencing of the entire RC Church on the subject of women's ordination, among other things, was awful. But I've also been surprised by Benedict's capacity to show generosity, wisdom, and rootedness in a Savior other than himself. His first encyclical knocked me off my feet (in a good way). I still have a copy on my bookshelf.

For the last few days I've been pondering what to embrace as my Lenten observance. Perhaps I shall simply pray for those things that led the Pope to this decision--for wisdom, for humility, and for the ability to do a (relatively) new thing in the face of long-standing tradition.

Ibrahim Farajaje, the Provost at SKSM, had this to say at the closing of his drash (sermon/reflection) for the opening ritual:

So, Come, Come, Lovers of Leaving,Come across the threshold into living in the differences;So, Come, Come: Leave limited consciousness to be plunged into the Ocean of Oneness;So, Come, Come: Leave attachment to limited notions of self;So, Come, Come to become Microcosm and Macrocosm;So, Come, Come: Leave behind notions of 'us' and 'them';So, Come, Come: Let us build sacred, vibrant, fun, deliciously organic, (g)locally-grown and sustainable communities in the Caravan of LOVE!

And both Ibrahim and Reb Zalman talked about multi-religious identity. Can you just sit with that for a minute?

Multi-religious identity.

You mean I don't have to be merely Christian? I can be both Jewish and Christian? I can be Jewish, Christian, Muslim, Buddhist? Not in the sense taking on any of the exclusivistic aspects of these traditions, but in the sense of authentically embracing and living by their holy texts, images and names for God, and spiritual practices that invite illumination, deepening, and unity/love among all. To be multi-religious (wow!) is to break down my exclusivistic faith constructs so I can reach out fully with deep awareness, embracing and accepting my neighbor as the embodied revelation of the divine. If that isn't holy practice, tell me what is.

You know what? We only get one shot at this set of circumstances we're placed in. Every choice we make has an unknowable (but imaginable) ripple effect.

Ask me my creed:

Will I choose to embrace only Roman Catholic identity any longer? No.

Will I reject Roman Catholic or Christian identity? No.

Will I spend the next years of my life seeking out the best living spiritual teachers there are from each of the world's major religions so I can sit at their feet and learn from them? Yes.

It's a new day, my friends. I shed the shackles with which my long-time faith binds me so I can put on the power to love that my faith has always offered me. And my faith will be broader and richer and more diverse than I ever imagined it could be. Starting today. Well, starting yesterday.

I went up to my Bay Area bestie after the talk was over and gave him a long, tight hug. "Thank you!" he said. He pulled back and looked at me and said, "Wow, that really had an impact on you, didn't it?" I nodded and my eyes got all wet and he said, "You're shaking."

Reb Zalman and Ibrahim Baba and all the people present in that sacred place rattled me, shattered me, made a new way possible for me.

If you want me, I'll be picking my way through the rubble, moving forward in amazing, radiant, warmth-imparting light. <3

So I walked down the hill this morning toward the bus stop around 11:04. The bus comes around 11:16, gets me to the train station around 11:22, giving me about ten minutes to get through the BART turnstile and up the escalator before I wait for my train for seven minutes. That train takes half an hour, then my walk takes about eight minutes. If I catch the 11:16 bus, I get to work fifty minutes early, which is enough time to walk to the coffee shop for a leisurely sip and nibble for lunch if I'm so inclined. If I catch the 12:16 bus, I get to work ten minutes late.

I dunno about you, but I hate being late.

So, naturally, I missed the bus. My automated transit cards--both of them--are both gone haywire, and without them my only option for the bus is to pay cash. I don't carry cash. Which means I got halfway down the hill only to realize that, two minutes away from my destination, I wasn't going to have what it took to board that bus.I had to turn around.

And I HATED it.

I got so mad I could have wrung someone's neck. My head filled instantly with all the things that had already gone wrong this morning, this week, this month, and this year. I cursed as I wheeled the stroller around and puffed back up the hill. It just wasn't fair to go through my whole morning rigamarole just to find out I was going to get a look from my boss when I got in.

(Even more than being late, I hate receiving the disapproval of others over anything I could have prevented.)

I opted to take a different bus, one that comes just late enough to put me at work fifteen minutes before I normally arrive (and forty-five minutes after I had planned to be there to hand off the baby to her sitter). I texted the baby's sitter from my dining room table, apologized profusely, and set out again a few minutes later to wait for bus number two.

Then something happened that really took the cake.

I couldn't stay mad.

I wanted to stay mad, to bask in my fury, but I couldn't. My fellow creatures--trees, wind, flowers, vista, sun, birds, even mud conspired to grab my attention and elicit a spark of joy. It worked.

On the BART train, a lovely older woman in an electric wheelchair smiled the rest of my chilliness away, sweet-talking the baby and me as we rode along.I exited the train laughing.

Tonight we are marked with ash, the symbol of our coming from and returning to dust. Repent, and believe in the gospel. My pastor in Oakland used those words as he marked my 16-month-old daughter's forehead, then said to me, "Isn't it funny to say this to someone like her?"

I smiled. Yeah, it's pretty hilarious to make a command to anyone under two, as if there's the remotest chance that they might listen. I mean, really?

But on the other hand, no--it's quite serious, and rather radical. She's a catechumen, after all--she has been since she was two months old. And that makes her a part of this journeying community. She belongs. And repenting is both her right and her vocation for as long as she lives and breathes.

You know how sometimes a phrase will stick with you when you hear it at just the right moment? Tonight, at the start of the Ash Wednesday liturgy, the pastoral associate spoke of the tender mercy of God. Tender. Yes. Yes, that's right. God is tender when we turn toward Her, empty-handed. God grasps our hands tenderly, firmly, asking to behold us. God is lover, friend, ally, and truth-teller. God is healer. God is...

Well, God is good. All the time.

And we always get to turn back, because God always wants us back.

God always wants us back.

I dunno about you, but that really sums up the whole Christian gig for me.

And I suppose that's why Lent's my favorite liturgical season.

Keep an eye out for more Lenten blog posts--I hope to make these a daily occurrence.